


Like Salvation

by zipegs



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 14x12 coda, Episode: s14e12 Prophet and Loss, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, cas and dean get the emotional moment they deserve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 01:19:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17653295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zipegs/pseuds/zipegs
Summary: That’s the kicker, isn’t it? The moment Dean wants to keep fighting is the moment it’s no longer an option.





	Like Salvation

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Maggie for beta-ing! Crossposted from [tumblr](https://ghstfcers.tumblr.com/post/182542255629/coda-to-1412-prophet-and-loss-the-drive-back-to).

The drive back to the bunker passes in relative silence. Even Castiel, who hadn’t poured himself out onto the pavement in some long overdue attempt at catharsis like he and Sam had back at the hospital, seems reluctant to puncture the bubble of quiet hope that shudders inside the Impala’s four doors.

 

Whatever the reason, Dean is grateful. He’s tired, and his jaw hurts, and he doesn’t have the energy to do much more than cling to the steering wheel and let Baby guide his family home. He can see Sam’s face out of the corner of his eye, somber yet determined, illuminated in brief flashes of light that slide wetly over the Impala’s sleek back.

 

He doesn’t dare glance back at Cas.

 

When they finally arrive, Dean is slow to put the car in park and kill the engine, and even once its steady purr has choked off into thick silence, the three of them just sit there for a moment in the dark.

 

Sam is the first to move, swiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand, and he pushes the passenger door open with a deafening creak. He shoves it shut. Dean can hear his footsteps thumping around to the rear of the car, the brush and slide of a duffle bag being pulled out of the trunk. In the back seat, Castiel, too, begins to stir, slipping out and into the garage.

 

Dean shoves a hand through his hair and tries to pull himself together.

 

When he finally emerges, Sam has already gone inside. He can picture the look his brother probably shared with Cas over the hood of the car, the eyes he likes to make when he thinks that Dean isn’t watching. The thought pisses him off, but he’s too drained to linger on it for long.

 

Cas is leaning against the car, his back pressed up against her metal frame, his hands shoved into the pockets of his trench coat. Behind him, the trunk is still popped, its jaw unhinged and ready to strike.

 

Dean’s not sure what to make of it all. In the wake of his promise, he feels both relief and terror—hope is an open wound in his chest. He feels scooped out, hollow despite the archangel locked deep in the recesses of his mind. He has never been good with words, never known how to articulate his feelings in any particularly meaningful way, and so when he catches Castiel’s eye he simply quirks his lips and lets a hand rest on the angel’s shoulder. Dean holds it there for a moment, and then when he walks past, he allows it to fall. It slides down the front of Cas’s trench coat, palm sliding over thick khaki, fingers catching on smooth brown buttons.

 

Cas’s eyes follow him as he makes his way to the trunk, ducking behind the open hatch and burying his face so he doesn’t have to meet his gaze. Dean slings his duffel over his shoulder, wraps his fingers around the lid of the trunk and slams it shut.

 

“I’m not giving up.”

 

He stills, the palm of his hand flat against the car’s cool metal. He doesn’t look at Cas. The words hover in the air between them, and Dean waits for them to dissipate.

 

“Cas—” he says finally, quiet and pleading. The night swallows his voice whole. _Don’t do this_ , he wants to beg. _Don’t make this harder than it has to be._ But Castiel has never been good at taking orders—he’s always had a penchant for rebellion, even from the start.

 

“You said back at the hospital that when the time comes, we have let you go. Sam may have agreed to that, but I certainly didn’t.”

 

Dean exhales, a huff of breath that’s hot with frustration. He shakes his head, rubs a hand over his mouth. The blooming bruise on his jaw is a dull ache, and pain flares under his fingers as he worries the spot where Sam’s fist struck bone. “What do you want me to say, Cas?” he asks after a moment, turning to face him. “I said I’m willing to try, okay? I—”

 

_I don’t want to die._

 

The words are on the tip of his tongue, but he bites them off, looks down and away instead. He feels like he’s 29 again, staring down an eternity in Hell. It’s the first time since then that he can remember feeling like this—like there’s something worth holding onto. Something worth reaching for. That’s the kicker, isn’t it? The moment Dean wants to keep fighting is the moment it’s no longer an option.

 

“Dean.”

 

Sometime during their conversation, Cas has moved around the car to stand beside him. He puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder, digs his fingers into the flesh that hides under his jacket. Even through three layers of fabric, the feeling is electric. He can’t help but look up—Castiel has always had a way of drawing Dean’s eye, and now, this close, it’s a magnetic pull he can’t hope to overcome.

 

“We’ll find another way.”

 

He sounds so sure, so firm. Castiel is nothing if not sturdy, and Dean has been standing on his own for far too long. He swallows, blinking against the burn in his throat, the sudden blurring of his vision. A shaky breath shudders its way into his lungs.

 

Cas slides his hand around to cup the back of his neck, and Dean’s breath punches out of him. Heat blooms under Cas’s hand, radiating down his spine and into the pit of his stomach. The touch is soft but sure, fingers curling against the nape of Dean’s neck, brushing against his hairline. He’s looking at Dean like he’s worth something. Like he’s worth saving.

 

It’s too much. He closes his eyes and presses his forehead against Castiel’s, fingers clutching at the lapels of his trench coat. Tears have begun to gather in his lashes, spilling hot and terrified down his cheeks.

 

“You don’t have to do this alone.” Castiel’s voice is a low murmur. They’re so close that Dean can feel the heat of his breath. If he tilted his head, leaned forward another three inches, they’d be kissing.

 

“I’m scared, Cas,” he admits. He feels small and impossibly young, a boy with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’s not sure how much more he can bear before he breaks.

 

“I know.” Castiel’s thumb is rubbing small circles into the back of his neck, his other hand pressing against the small of Dean’s back. “I can feel it.”

 

That startles a laugh out of him—Dean nearly chokes on it, taking a moment to pull back and wipe sheepishly at his eyes. “Thanks, man,” he says, trying for sarcastic and falling a little short, “that’s really encouraging.”

 

Castiel’s gaze is soft and fond and maybe a little sad. He’s moved his hand to cup Dean’s cheek, and Dean flushes at the intimacy of the touch. “I’m with you, Dean,” he says, quiet and earnest. “I mean it. I’m not giving up, and I won’t let you.” Dean’s eyes catch on the bob of Cas’s Adam’s apple as he swallows. The twist of his lips turns a little uncertain. “Nothing is worth losing you.”

 

Cas’s palm is a brand on his skin. Dean feels too hot, despite the winter chill that bites at the tip of his nose, the exposed skin on his hands. This is what he was afraid of, back when he was trying to pull this whole thing off without Castiel finding out. This is the kind of hope he didn’t want to have to face, the kind of love he knew he couldn’t bear to leave.

 

Cas leans in, and Dean can’t help but follow.


End file.
